THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE. THRICE, oh, thrice happy shepherd's life and state, Shuts out proud fortune, with her scorns and fawns; Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright; Instead of music and base flattering tongues, His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets and rich content: The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noontide's rage is spent: His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease: Pleased and full bless'd he lives, when he his God can please. His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, The lively picture of his father's face. Never his humble house or state torment him; Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him. PHINEAS FLETCHER, 1584-1650. HUMAN FRAILTY. CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast? st; So wise is man, that if with death he strive, young. FRANCIS QUARLES, 1592-1644. UP WITH THE DAWN. Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil! To dig the mine for hidden wealth, With swinging axe, and steady stroke, With ocean car and iron steed Traverse the land and sea, And spread our commerce round the globe, As winds that wander free. Subdue the earth, and conquer fate, Work, and the clouds of care will fly, And tyrants must decay. To grapple bravely with our lot, And strew our path with flowers. THOMAS ELLIOTT, 1820 THE SEASONS OF LIFE. WE, too, have autumns, when our leaves Drop loosely through the dampen'd air, When all our good seems bound in sheaves, And we stand reap'd and bare. Our seasons have no fix'd returns, At noon our sudden summer burns, But each day brings less summer cheer, As less the olden glow abides, By the pinch'd rushlight's starving beam It was not so we once were young- We trusted then, aspired, believed That earth could be remade to-morrow ; Ah, why be ever undeceived? Why give up faith for sorrow? O thou, whose days are yet all spring, Trust, blighted once, is past retrieving; The victory's in believing. -American. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 1819 |